


The Price of Freedom

by Lianna_Kent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, John is Alone, Loneliness, M/M, POV John Watson, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lianna_Kent/pseuds/Lianna_Kent
Summary: Death comes to us all in time. Some are taken far too soon, others can only sit and wait for the inevitable.





	The Price of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself cry writing this. I’m sorry.

He sat alone in an almost empty room. No longer a young man but not yet old enough.

A brown leather chair as battered as his own hide held his burdensome frailty, while the conventional window showcased continued life in his absence. Enduring the sight of joyful children at play and contented adults about their business was too much to bear some days, therefore he could only withdraw.

With eyes closed tight and a stray tear tracing the creases of age, his mind would retreat into the past. A reminiscence of nostalgic violin chords drawing him further back. Deeper into cherished memory.

_“Why promise me anything, Sherlock, when you held no intention of ever letting me follow you?”_

His own coarse, bitter voice filled the modest space but the music in his mind did not falter. He watched the same long slender fingers continue to cast their magic on the beautiful instrument from behind heavy eyelids. The man in his visions never having aged a day. The musical memory always stood as the answer to his question. Some sort of spell designed particularly to prolong his anguish.

In reality however, he knew all too well that this was only another sign of his lover’s commitment. Similar to the traces of whispered apologies, carried through the open window on gusts of playful wind, or the glimpses of tall shadows in his peripheral vision every so often, the music stood as a connection between death and living. A promise in itself that he was not alone. That someone was waiting for him.

_Soon._

In truth, he was no longer a young man. A life of war had left its scars, but he’d fought every single battle with fierce unrestraint. His lover by his side. They’d had many years together, but far too many apart.

His sacrifice and his lover’s sacrifice had paved the way for modern thought. For less prejudice and more freedom. Others were free to be who they were born to be, but he had spent so long in battle alongside Sherlock, he’d often wandered if they’d had their chance to live at all.

The years were gone in the blink of an eye, so was Sherlock. A hefty price indeed.

Still, he was not yet old enough it would seem.


End file.
